Closed Doors
by AvianInk
Summary: (Prompt) "At the Red Room, training for battle and pain wasn't the only kind of training. Natasha didn't think think it affected her that much, but when things start to get very heated in the bedroom with Bruce, she finds out that's not the case. "


**[A/N] **For the lovely anon who dropped this in my box. I hope it's alright.

**Trigger warning for allusions to past sexual abuse.** Resources for sexual abuse survivors and their loved ones: _ national-resources-sexual-assault-survivors-and-their-loved-ones_

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One rabbit hole she always welcomes: movies. Both watching and finding new selections for their list that perpetually grows. It's been a twenty minute exploration through last year's top sci-fi flicks when Bruce emerges from the bathroom, softly landing on her side of the bed.

A smirk unfurls, but doesn't compel her to lift her gaze to him. She scrolls on, no longer reading anything, awaiting a reaction to her clandestine taunt.

Of course he notices. He's one of two people in this universe entrusted with all of her. He's that for a very good reason—a lot of good reasons, in fact.

He notices and he wants her attention. When his weight shifts closer to her, she rocks a little from the slight momentum. On her phone, on the surface, she stays fixated.

It's fairly feline, the way he clambers fully onto the bed and nudges one hand away from her device. It'd be something she'd point out if he didn't kiss her the next second. There's a goofy, tiny grin that flashes as he breathes her in. Something about him on all fours (technically three, since one hand is in her hair) is intoxicating. She widens herself in invitation and exhales into him.

Their lips slip together, finding and retracing ways to taste each other. She'd never understood the appeal of kissing for pleasure until him. Even then, the draw is never physical—not in a sexual way—rather a yearning to get as close to him in every shape and form. The physiological side effects—how the friction of her underwear turns delicious—are happy bonuses.

Only for fresh oxygen do they disconnect. Her breath is already ragged, and not only because she scoots down the headboard mid-exhale. The subsequent rub of fabric over a particularly sensitive lower region doesn't help. It's a damp reminder of her want, of how their relationship has been escalating in a physical sense...and a little throwback to Tony walking in on them about a week ago. That, however, is not an incident she wants to muse on right now.

Their mouths meld again, Bruce's same hand with its fingers interwoven against her scalp, ever gentle. Deciding to return the favor in kind, her free hand hooks onto the collar of his sleepshirt (one that she hasn't commandeered yet); the other finds the bedside table, discards the forgotten phone, and rushes to his jaw. That palm lands where his neck and head meet. In tandem with a light tug on his chin, the tip of her tongue flicks into his mouth, daring for more, asking for this not to stop. Just like she wants (and so does he, as they've previously established), he sips in a bit of air, then presses harder into her. There's an underlying tightening in her stomach, and it becomes more apparent the longer they're joined like this.

The fingers in her hair unstitch. He seals her into one long kiss, his mouth full of steam and assurance. He separates their lips and dips lower. His plunge takes him down her neck. There, he's latched onto skin the whole time, trailing, kissing, gentle, quick sucks. A jab of breathlessness to her chest takes her a little aback.

Something distant, dark, and too sudden threatens to enclose on her. She insists, _demands_, on its retreat. Her hands adjust so she has his head between both, squeezing to tether herself back to him, to this. Probably thinking he's found a sensitive spot, he lingers, tongue swirling at a stray point on her throat.

After the interlude, he lands on her collarbone and _that_—that has her toes curling. Satisfaction spreads a small grin on his lips, which she relishes, sinks into it. Then his lips enclose over the ridges of bone, and her back feels it has no other choice but to shudder and arch. This time, her fingertips scrape his skull out of pleasure, a request for more of what he so willingly gives. He hears her, gives and lavishes her. Teeth come next—a soft drag across the spot he's just loved. Her thighs tighten, clench around his body fit between hers. She gasps and falls away, though not in the way she wants or expects.

There are too many tongues, far too many hands—too many fingers to keep track of—all on her. Smothering her, but keeping her on the cusp of conscious. There are too many people there, in her room—supposed to be her room, _was _her room so long ago—and none of them are Bruce, are anyone known or trusted.

These foreign forces tow her along, weaponize flesh against her. The assault is just enough for her to be aware of what's happening, what these men are doing to her, how the madame watches it, supervises. It's more than unfair. Her arms are handcuffed above her head, leaving everything exposed.

She does not want to be exposed for this. Not for this: the bodies, the serpents. They aren't in her, but they shed slime onto her, slither between her and bone.

"Hold on."

It tumbles out before she's back in the present, in bed with Bruce and solely Bruce. Instantly, he retreats, quick as though he's burned her, hurt her. He puts a good foot of space between their faces. "You okay? Did-did I—"

"No." She wishes she could say it with more conviction, because it's true, but she's too rattled. A fight for her conscience has begun, one where loss results in her complete withdrawal for hours. Catatonia wouldn't mean safety though. The Red Room persists in the overlooked crevices within herself.

Bruce tries to keep her here, where she's secure. "Nat?"

Her tongue won't work, not like she wants. If she uses her tongue, she'll scream.

"Can I touch you?" He doesn't need to provide clarity. She manages a hint of a nod and he anchors her with kindness and a caress.

One finger, just one, strokes her cheek, her chin and jaw. She breathes in the now, concentrates on him. Knots and tangles pull tight on her, threaten to yank her under. Her legs are already numb.

"Hold me." She utters, sending it out through the cracks amongst the mind-consuming gnarls.

Watching her, ready to catch if she falls, he clambers up beside her, props himself against the headboard like she is. He eases her into him, into his chest, folds her into his pulse. Every finger tug is a question. Too far gone to answer, she lets herself fall into him and remembers home in how he breathes. His two arms encircle her and squeeze, which is what she needs right now. There are two aftermaths to her flashbacks—horrible, numb isolation and the need for tight pressure from a trusted someone.

He faces her full on, legs apart so she can chose the proximity. Right now, that choice is to remain in the same position, shuffling slightly so her left shoulder presses into his chest. There's no complaint as he accepts her weight.

They've discussed this. To avoid it would've been disastrous but, more than that, withholding it wouldn't be honest. They weren't their personas or prisoners in their own skin with each other and they wouldn't be—they'd promised each other that. She's told him what they did to her in the Red Room, even the parts she'd never revealed to anyone else. There'd been no need to divulge before, or maybe she wanted to forget. It seems her body hasn't forgotten, though.

Because he knows her, knows all of her in a way previously infeasible, he murmurs, "Is it…?"

Maybe she nods—the command fires from brain to the rest of her head, yet she doesn't feel it herself. Hidden in a shaky exhale, she whispers, "Yeah."

And they sit there. For who knows how long, they remain, her ear a megaphone for his breathing, the steady thrum of him her hook into the present. Secured within his hold, there's a finite pond to drift in, not a trench. She falls away, like sleep without the peace.

Slowly, over the course of seconds and minutes, she awakens, recovers physical sensation. Her body registers the enveloping compression that's stayed consistent this whole time.

In her gradual return, she wraps an arm around one of his. She communicates to him through touch, the light scrape of her fingertips against his skin.

For awhile longer, they stay like that. She'd not tired—there's no way she'd subject herself to guaranteed nightmares, much less fall asleep—but she wonders how he's holding up. The kind of sleeper he is, he could knock out holding her like this.

He seems distant from rest when he tells her in a hush, "I don't ever...I will never do that to you."

"I know." She does. Every fiber in her knows that. She hopes _he's _aware of that.

"I mean that, Nat," he says into her hair, warmth spreading over her scalp. "I don't-I don't want to hurt you. I couldn't stand it."

"Bruce—"

"You've had to endure so much more than your share of pain." His cheek comes to rest against her for a passing second. She angles her face toward him, craving more of his caress. In a sidelong glance, they lock on each other. There's no question of where she is now. Sure and steady, he tells her, "I want you to feel completely safe."

Adjusting her legs as needed, she shifts herself more toward him, less toward the wall ahead. Her hand around his forearm releases, and she cradles his jaw in her palm. The skin there is smooth, like untouched snow, freshly shaven. She beckons him to find a haven in her as she has in him. She affirms his sentiment simply, "I do."

At this angle, going for his mouth would be a little awkward, so she tilts back and places her lips on the underside of his chin, near the place where her thumb rests. Assured, his arms change position, loosening but not retreating. A feathery touch floats over the nape of her neck, and she savors the refreshing tremors that ripple out under the surface. Her eyelids droop in a prolonged, relaxed blink, soaking him in.

Her eyes reopen to his steady gaze. His expression is the question '_Are you okay?' _without asking.

She does something rare when she says, "I'm sorry."

"No. That—"

"'_No_?'" Did he really just reject an apology. She's not mad—on the verge of laughter, actually.

"You don't have to apologize for anything. None of this is your fault." He insists, utterly in earnest. "We'll take things slow."

She could tell him exactly how much she loves him or she could kiss him. Since she's always been the one to take action, she does the latter. He maneuvers for a better angle, a deeper embrace.

They part, she gives his hair a quick squeeze. There's a taste of understanding on her tongue without notes of expectation. It's okay if things don't proceed as either of them thought. They share joy in simply sleeping with one another.

"I'll get the lights." She navigates out of their bodies' tangle in pursuit of the switch near the door. Blankets and sheets rustle, pillows let out little sighs as he repositions them.

By the door, she pauses, thinks about Bruce coming from the bathroom and slinking up to her. It was smooth, for one—also downright seductive. It'd be a shame, truly, to leave that with no conclusion.

There's no way they're having sex tonight, not unless she wants a repeat flashback. There are other activities, however, that provide more than adequate stimulation and satisfaction. She's very aware of this from the past week alone. So the lights stay on.

She takes a detour on the way back to bed. She makes an arc around the foot of the bed, which earns a fair amount of confusion from Bruce. "What? What are you…"

Skepticism can't smother his small grin. It just continues to grow as she rounds to his side. There, she swings one leg over his hips, settles atop him. He surges up on his elbows only to get pushed back down. Her arms do none of the work; she closes her mouth on his and guides him backward, until he's flush against the mattress.

Unmistakably breathless, he jokes, "What happened to taking it slow?"

She squints at him, never straying more than a few centimeters away. "I waited for _years_, Bruce." She exhales a laugh quickly quelled by another kiss. She presses into him, hands wandering down, from face to neck to shoulders and lower still. When he hums a small moan into her mouth, she tells him, both for clarity and to tease, "No sex. But," she pecks his nose, "there are alternatives."

His palms flatten at the tops of her thighs and drag down. There's electricity in her legs, a jolt right to her core. She takes the sparks, plunges her tongue into his mouth, gives it right back. When he scrapes up and around to the base of her back, she has no choice except to dive down to his neck. One fortunate side effect of his trained physical awareness is his increased sensitivity, and all the wonderful noises that come out of her kissing his neck, his back, underneath his ears, and more.

At the hem of her shirt, he pauses everything. She lifts from a spot that might be purple come morning.

"Are you really okay?" He asks, prepared to stop then and there if she's not.

It makes her answer all the quicker, all the more sure. "Yeah." He may not be the panacea to her trauma, but he is a large part of the salve that heals her slowly over time.

"Let me know if we need to stop." He says, thumb stroking over fabric, nothing but a trail of sincerity.

She smiles, thanks him with a soft kiss. Never has there been any worry or pressure to go anywhere she didn't want to, not with him.

She takes his hands then, pins him by the wrists. This isn't the first time she's done this, but she checks with him regardless. His chin tilts up to kiss her, lock in his assurance. With his arms immobile, their lips linger together in a dance slow and casual. Then she goes for his neck with renewed fervor.


End file.
